Chapter Fourteen

Armand woke early the next morning, as streams of brand new light began to sift lazily in through the window. He kept his eyes closed against the sun, overly aware of the breaking pulse against his temple. He rarely overindulged in spirits of any kind, but ale had a particularly nasty effect upon his head, and his mouth felt parched, as though it had been stuffed with wool.

For a moment, that was all he seemed able to focus upon, but after several deep, even breaths, he cracked his eyes open enough to see if there might be a pitcher of water with which to wash his face, before going to fetch some breakfast. When he made to move, however, he felt a soft tug upon his arm, keeping him pinned to his place in the bed.

Cracking his eyes slightly wider, Armand realized with a horrible, sinking feeling, that his headache and potential for morning nausea were not the worst of last night’s decisions. For a moment, he simply allowed himself to look at her. Long tendrils of hair spun out around her head, as if she were some mythical sea queen. Her face, normally reserved, normally stoic against the world, was softly curved as she slept. Those delicious lips, still swollen from their kisses the night before, were slightly parted, and she was breathing softly, which gave a slight swell to the deep curves of her bosom and belly as she inhaled. One nipple was just within reach of his fingers, and Armand had to curl his hand tightly to avoid reaching out to touch her. Despite the roiling sensation pounding in his skull, the lower parts of his anatomy were far too aware of the magnificent, powerful woman sleeping entirely nude beside him.

He blinked as the reality of his actions settled against his muddled brain. What the hell had he done? Images of their coupling stirred his body to even further attention, filling her, claiming her. He had claimed her. He was reminded of the secret she had kept from him the night before. She had been a virgin. He had taken that from her, caused her pain, ensured difficulty, should she ever choose to marry. She would never return to London society again. Not unless he did something drastic.

That she had made no indications of wanting to return was far less important than the aching sensation in his stomach that had nothing to do with his drinking and everything to do with his guilt. Armand swallowed deeply. Another drink would undoubtedly upset the contents of his stomach, otherwise he would have craved a glass of something strong. As it was, he couldn’t afford the luxury, and his head reeled at that moment, as if to prove the point. Besides, the sun had yet to fully rise. Gentlemen didn’t drink spirits before the dawn.

They also didn’t deflower ladies, he thought with a pang of self-admonishment. Was he the worst sort of man? By God, Captain Catalina Sol was bringing out a whole new side of him. Well, he certainly wasn’t going to go about righting the situation wearing only what his mother had given him. Slowly, carefully, he extricated himself from the soft curve of her arm, sliding from the bed, determined to keep the contents of his stomach exactly where they were.

He pulled on his britches and boots, then threw his shirt over his head, not bothering to tuck it in below the waist. He was on a ship of mercenary pirates, surely they had seen uglier sites than a worse-for-drink nobleman with a guilty conscience. So Armand walked down to the galley, righting himself against a doorframe before brewing some bitter coffee and taking a few pieces of toast from a stack on the table. If he had learned anything over the years of selling rum, he knew that soaking up the poison was one of the only effective methods of curing the aftereffects of a night’s drinking.

Breakfast in hand, he made his way back to the captain’s chamber. Catalina was still asleep. She had turned upon her side, and the long curve of her body caught streams of the increasing sunlight. He considered shutting the blinds for the sake of his temples, but the image she made against the bed was too tempting to say goodbye to just yet. Instead, he forced down a cup of coffee and a few pieces of toast. They were dry as the desert, but the roiling waves in his stomach seemed to calm a little, so he started upon another piece.

Across the room, Catalina began to stir, and he stiffened. Armand knew he had a duty. He may have forsaken his estates, left to be run by proxy in his absence. He may have forsaken all of England and France, not to speak of his mother’s lands. But he had not forsaken his gentlemanly upbringing entirely, and he knew within his heart, down to the very tips of his slightly swollen fingers—he was never touching ale again—what he needed to do.

“Coffee?” he asked.

Her eyes were sleepy, and there was an ephemeral glow about her, with that halo of hair and the lovely golden color of her skin, from a life at sea. She nodded sleepily.

“Good morning,” she whispered, a small smile playing upon her lips. “I take it that the ale is making a second appearance this morning.” He found he was irritated that she seemed to suffer no ill effects of their over-indulgence. In fact, she rather seemed to be glowing, the soft light around her catching the room in streaks of gold and pale blue.

“I suppose I’ll have to take back what I said last night,” Armand said. She raised an eyebrow, accepting the mug of coffee he offered. “You can most certainly drink all the men in London under the table.” At that, Catalina took a long drink from her mug.

“It’s all about practice,” she said. She was just sitting there, the sheet around her waist exposing those two perfect breasts to the room, and Armand was torn between wanting to appease his guilty conscience, and his powerful desire to walk across the room and push her back against the bed, giving him full opportunity to kiss, lick, and bite those delicious pink nipples. He cleared his throat, unsure of what to say next. And then, merely because he could think of no suitable preamble, what with the pounding of rocks against his brain, he came right out and said it.

“I think we should marry.”

If she hadn’t been bred a noblewoman, he had no doubt that she would have spewed her coffee all over him. As it was, Catalina merely choked on the coffee in her mouth, and then placed the mug down on the bedside table. The calmness with which she moved was far more disorienting than Armand would have cared for.

“I beg your pardon.” It had all the ring of a young debutante upon a ballroom floor, but Armand knew better than to believe her. He could feel the stare of a woman who was very accustomed to having her way, and that tone of voice harkened back to their days of youth, when they scampered and scurried their way through the countryside. If Catalina, or Charlotte, did not like something, the casual observer would not have known it from her tone, but anyone the wiser would make haste to hide. As a young girl, Charlotte had a pretty little habit of throwing crockery. Armand was beginning to suspect it was one she hadn’t forsaken.

Still, he’d encountered sights far more dangerous than she, even if none were immediately coming to mind. But he set his chin straight and raised one eyebrow in her direction. He longed to close his eyes and wake from this dream, to realize that all of it had been in his mind and that none of it was real. He wasn’t supposed to sleep with her. Right now, he only wished he could turn back the clock. He wanted that more than anything.

But it wasn’t the truth. He had spent so much time running from his responsibilities, pretending to be someone he was not. This was one matter for which he would need to make amends, to make things right.

“I said—”

But she cut him off. “I know what you said.”

By the tone of her voice, he would have assumed all was well, perhaps even expected an acceptance of his proposal. By God, she’d be a fool not to accept it, and Catalina was clearly no one’s fool. But there was something akin to steel in her gaze, and Armand felt the rush of last night’s alcoholic indulgence all over again, as it tumbled through his stomach. So he offered her a smile, suddenly feeling as though he needed to ward off a coming explosion. He was beginning to get the queer suspicion she was going to say no.

But she didn’t say no. In fact, she didn’t say anything at all. Instead, Catalina Sol tilted her head back and laughed. She laughed until he could see tears gathering at the corners of her eyes, until her belly rocked and she gripped the sheets. She laughed and she laughed, until Armand could take no more.

“What the hell, Charlotte?”

That stopped her in her tracks. She looked at him. “You’re not joking.”

It was not a question. Oh, for all that he wanted it to be a question, it was not, and that was most dangerous thing of all.

Still, he answered it regardless, hating the look he now saw in her eyes, hating the fact that she seemed unaware of just how much trouble they had made in giving in to their desires the night before.

He stepped forward, his jaw squared.

“I am most certainly not joking,” he said, glad to hear that his voice sounded even and almost calm. For all outward appearances, it might seem that Armand was actually in some sort of control, except a thread of pure rage was climbing up his spine, and he twisted his fingers, his nails cutting into the flesh of his palm. “Charlotte, I don’t see what could possibly be funny about this—” Before he could manage his rational argument, as a man should hardly have to give to the woman he had deflowered the evening prior, on exactly why they should wed, she cut him off with a tone so fierce, it stopped his heart for a beat.

“Don’t call me that,” she said, and it was as though her very voice had turned to ice. “Don’t you ever call me that.”

Was that it then? Was Lady Charlotte Talbot, daughter of the Earl of Derby, his oldest friend in the world, truly dead?

Before he could ask, however, she continued in her same, steely tone. “I am Catalina Sol, captain of the Liberté, and I behave as I please.”

He felt a twang of pure fury burning behind his eyes. How it all gone so wrong?

“I eat and drink where I please. I rescue the people I wish to rescue, and I take the lovers I wish to take.” Knowing that she had only had the one true lover—himself—the statement should not have made Armand so terrifically angry that she referred to them in plurals, but it did.

“You are ruined.” He nearly spat the words, aware that she had gotten under his skin in a way he hadn’t allowed anyone to do since youth. Since her. “You are ruined in the eyes of all that matter, and if you do not marry me now, then you will likely never marry anyone.”

The expression upon her face almost resembled that of a mother speaking to an insubordinate child, as if the child simply could not comprehend what they were discussing.

“No. I’m not.” She was standing now, hurriedly dressing in those tailored britches of hers that had been enticing him for the last few days and pulling her shirt over her head in a rush. He ground his teeth to keep from raising his voice. “I am not ruined from last night because I was ruined far earlier in my life. I will never”—the pause was almost violent—“ever return to society in London. I am Catalina, not Charlotte. Your friend is gone, Armand, and the sooner you understand that, the better we are surely all to be.”

“What if you are with child?” he asked her, feeling as though the room were tilting out from below his feet, a sensation which had nothing to do with alcoholic indulgence. “Then what will you do?”

She nearly gaped at him. “Have you not seen the women and children I take in as my own?” she asked. “If I am with child, he or she will have a home as good as any other.” Armand’s fury was beginning to reach a boiling point, and he was sure his ears were turning red.

“Not the life of an earl’s child. Not the life that your child deserves.”

She snapped her head around to face him so quickly, he was surprised to see it was still attached. “You do not tell me what sort of life my child does or does not deserve.” She was moving and speaking so quickly that Armand was having difficulty keeping her limbs in his line of sight. “If I am with child, I will raise it the way I see fit. And if I am not, then I will return your brother to you and put you on the next passing ship. Or perhaps I’ll throw you overboard myself.”

They were growing heated regarding their hypothetical offspring, and yet, the idea of a child of Catalina’s running roughshod through the Spanish Main, potentially hurting itself, never learning how to be a lord or lady, made Armand’s heart ache in a way that angered him all over again.

“You should still marry.” He tried to school his voice, but control seemed further out of reach than imaginable. His anger was burning a course through the whole of his body.

“And why on earth should I do that?” She nearly bit him, so quickly did the words spill from her mouth. “If you recall, my lord, marriage is the fundamental cause for my running away from London in the first.”

That she had him there was not reason enough for Armand to release the topic from his tightly clenched fists. “There are other men,” he said. “There are men who will treat you properly, care for you.” He was getting dangerously close to a duel, Armand was beginning to think, but still, he could not seem to back down.

“Like you, Armand?” she asked him. Her voice had reached an even tone, with no emotion evident, and that was far more terrifying than her angered yelling. Like him. He could have been her husband these years now, had he ever written back, had he not turned himself away from everything London and Paris were to him. He had been a coward and fool.

And yet, the knowledge did not serve to calm his temper in the slightest. Instead, he nearly ground his teeth to dust, as she continued her even speech.

“I have never needed a man to care for me,” she said, her gaze so full of disdain, Armand felt himself growing smaller in the wake of it. “I have never needed anyone to care for me.” This time, when she spoke, there was no denying the sadness that filtered through her words, or the expression in her eyes, and Armand felt his own grief in it, felt his own sadness as it mirrored hers.

“Why are you trying to change me?” she asked him. He knew he needed to back down, knew that if he spoke right at this moment, as this woman stood before him in her britches, then he would regret it forever. He knew all these things, and yet the anger seemed to consume him, anger, fear, sadness.

“It’s about time someone tried.”

He watched her finish dressing and leave without another word, but there was no denying the pain he saw in those beautiful eyes, and he felt all the hurt he had caused her as acutely as if someone had dug a knife into his very own body. Of course he didn’t want to change her, not the glorious laughter that exposed her long stretch of beautiful neck, not the way she treated the world’s misfits, offering them love and joy, so much more than just clothing and food. There was not a single thing in the world he would change about Catalina Sol.

He stopped short, eyes still wide upon the doorway through which she had only just left. If he didn’t want to change her, then why had he said so? Why had he said the one thing he knew would hurt her more than all the rest?

Because she had done the same.

She hadn’t even said no, hadn’t even rejected him in a way that stood to break him, but as Armand stood in Catalina’s chamber all alone, he realized he hadn’t proposed out of honor. He hadn’t suddenly developed the sense of responsibility that had forsaken him all those years ago.

He had proposed because he wanted to marry her. The thought was like a knife turning in his belly, and it sent a shard of new pain through his temple.

He had wanted to marry her.

As she had lain in the morning sunshine, her hair spread around her, that delicious glow upon her skin, Armand had believed it his duty to marry Catalina, but it hadn’t been his duty. It hadn’t been his responsibility. It had been his desire.

And then she had laughed, had laughed and thrown his betrayal of their once future in his face, and Armand hadn’t understood why he had been so angry. But he understood now, he knew exactly what had driven him to say the words he knew would bring her to her knees. Because she had brought him to his knees and Armand Rajaram de Bourbon, earl, comte, somewhere in line for an Indian princehood, didn’t like the sensation one bit.